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The Art of Imperialism
Prologue In the unmistakable might that is the British Empire, there are few who still speak the story of Krantikari. To many, this name is only but a fable - a tale that the people of colonial Sikkim seldom speak. Much to the fog of the public eye, this tale is one that altered the course of history; one that remains true from start to fine; one that is an essential to any steadfast advocate. In the year Seventeen-Hundred and Thirty-Nine, year of Our Lord, the European colonisation of India had only begun. Among the forerunners competing for the riches this land had to offer was Great Britain, whose legacy in the Orient would not go unnoticed. Through shear military force and cunning propaganda, the British pioneered their way through history, deciding the fate of those they had conquered, and defined the Art of Imperialism. Our story begins in a humble British camp in northern India, where the soldiers in service of His Majesty struggle to make ends meet with the native people of Sikkim there before them. 'Peace' is the word used by the British to promote relations with the aborigines, but a more sinister agenda lie in waiting... Part I Chapter 1 AS THE SOUNDS of fogbells and the clamours of men rang through the thick air, the soldier, identified by his badges to be a lowly corporal, emerged from his barrack to be hit with a sudden briskness from the marine climate. Recently awoken from an afternoon slumber, his back was stiff from the previous day's events and the sombre weather had brought all men in his regiment to a melancholy mood. The overcast skies and slight, frigid winds reminded him much of his home in the British Isles. Even still, this is nothing what he had expected in the Oriental tropics of India. Even the British flag that hung over the camp, usually waving brilliantly in all of its profound glory, seemed to sag in submission. The soldier, having shed his uniformal red jacket and wearing his undershirt and slacks, approached the warmth of the nearest fire, which blazes rigorously with the slightest smell of teafire and cinnamon. He sat down on a makeshift bench, and warmed his hands which had become worn and blackened through the weeks of hard labour and conditions. He recognised the man sitting across from him as Parsons, a lieutenant from his company. The other men sitting around him were alien. Lieutenant Parsons made eye contact with the young soldier, and re-positioned himself to face him. He offered him a cigar, which the corporal accepted. "This be strange weather for this here part of the world," said Parsons, in a thick Novocastrian accent, "What do ye make of this, Bishop?" "Certainly isn't what they told us it'd be," replied Corporal Bishop, between puffs of smoke of his newly-lit cigar. Bishop's tone and voice were parallel to his appearance: rough yet quaint. His skin, naturally pale, had darkened during his reassignment to the Orient. His long brown hair was a simple unkempt mess on his head, hidden by his corporal's tricorne, and a rough beard could be made out on his chin, as he had neglected to shave in many days. He was of average height and stature, and his dark eyes were naturally weary from weeks of lack of proper sleep. All these were secondary impressions. What one first noticed about the man was the hideous facial scar that ran from his left ear to this upper jaw. He had received it years ago after a skirmish in the West African colonies. Lieutenant Parsons, a middle-aged man with a decourated history and gruff personality, leaned towards Bishop. "They say this be a sign", stated Parsons in a rough whisper. "A sign of what, do you reckon?" queried Bishops to the celebrated war mongrel. "The natives, ye see, they believe in all this voodoo magic of the sorts" began Parsons matter-of-factly. His voice suddenly became dry and wary. "Our presence goes without welcome... They know what we be here for. So what do they do? They go to thar pagan gods and mess with the weather." Corporal Bishop seemed amused, but skeptical of the lieutenant's theory. "Surely the natives are friendly folk... At least that's what the viscount said. Why would they be wanting to drive us out?" challenged Bishop. The lieutenant replied in a solemn, gravelled voice. "What do ye think those bloody fakirs do all day in the woods over yonder? They be up to no good, ya hear. I can jus' as well see them now, sharpening thar sabres and spears and whatever tribal tools they use against invaders. Why, jus' the other day, one of our own - Clopton, I believe his name was - visited thar nearest villages right down the path. He wasn't in the brightest of spirits, ya see, and he gave one sour look to the village's mystic... The poor lad be dead as the night." Suddenly, a man sitting adjacent to Bishop and Parsons joined in the conversation. "Eh, they say there was anot'er lad with him, yes." The soldier, who looked to be in his mid-thirties, spoke in a high, Irish accent. "The lad bar'ly escaped with his life, but poor Clopton was done for without a chance. After 'ey killed 'im, they performed all 'ese pagan rituals and the sort on him, to please their gods. They've gone mad, I tell ye, and they won't stop until -" "Callaghan! Parsons! Still telling ghost stories I hear?" The voice that cut the two gossiping men off belonged to none other than Lieutenant Commander Terrington, an aide to the camp's colonel and a high commanding officer of the expedition. He spoke fluently in a rich, Cockney accent, dressed elegantly pompous in full uniform with a sabre at his side, had a clean-shaven face complimented by a white powder wig, and stood looming over the soldiers. Parsons spoke up. "We were eh... Just discussing the natives, sir, you see, we have this theory tha-" "I am not in the least interested, lieutenant." interrupted Terrington, "Must I remind you gentlemen of our mission here? Those "mad natives" you speak of are our allies. We are here representing the Crown, and I expect you to get your facts straight, lieutenant..." At once the young Irish lieutenant ceased to speak, and produced from next to his makeshift seat a brown glass of stout. He sipped it quietly, eyeing Terrington. Terrington began to speak again in another tone: "Supper will be in an hour's half. As for you, Parsons," the commander looked directly at Parsons, "the colonel requests your presense in his tent at once." With an arrogant look in his eye and a distinguishable smirk about him, Terrington looked over the crowd gathered around the fire one last time suspiciously, before bidding them adieu. As Parsons stood up to head towards the colonel's tent which he was summoned to, Bishop rose as well. Sombrely, he strolled through the camp, seldom speaking a word to any. He did not know many of these men; those he did know he could not say he was fond of. Even the men in his own company (for Bishop was a corporal in an infantry regiment) were alien to him. As night drew nearer, the temperatures dropped and the winds grew more violent. Bishop walked alone and cold. ''Was it true what they say? ''though he to himself. He was sceptical of the tales the men spoke of, of the natives and their tribal uses of black magic. Bishop was not one to easily believe ghost stories. Alas, this land was another planet to him, and he no longer had the advantage of distinguishing fact from the absurd. He glanced toward the rough forest that flanked the British encampment. The wilderness. What lie beyond there Bishop did not know. He knew, however, that it was within British interest. When the British were interested, they were invulnerable. Bishop sat for supper along with the rest of his company. Conversations were commencing all around him, yet he was not complied to speak. He preferred to remain silent, as he had for the past hour's quarter. He looked down at his plate. Saffron pork and suet pudding. He was hungry, yet why would he not eat? He eyed his tea, brown as mahogany and secreted on top by a thin layer of tea leaves. He did not bother to drink it. Finally, another man in his company, a young sergeant, noticed Bishop had not touched his food. When he asked why, Bishop simply replied he had no appetite, and then offered his rations to the sergeant, whom gladly accepted. After the company was dismissed, Bishop returned to his tent, which he shared with four other men (whose names he did not know, or could not remember). Still wearing his dirty undershirt and ragged slacks, Bishop did not bother to change. He lay prostrate on his cot, staring at the ceiling. Even in the tent the cold still got to Bishop, freezing his blood and drying his eyes. At last the Union Jack, hanging outside in the centre of the camp, began to dance vigourously. Chapter 2 CORPORAL BISHOP COULD not sleep that night. He lay motionless in his grubby, dampened cot listening mindlessly to the unexpectedly melodic and repetitive sonorous snores of his comrades. After listening for a number of hours, Bishop was overcome with a sudden urge to rise, and so he did so. Like a poor soul possessed by a phantom, the paled soldier walked dreamily yet lethargically across the dirt floor of his battalion's tent, so quiet as to not wake anything with ears. He reached the opposite end of the tent, and swiftly pressed back the flap. All at once, a wave of frigid night air hit his hot face. Bishop suddenly turned to make sure the breeze had not also woken any of the other soldiers. Relieved to still see them asleep, Bishop stepped outside, shoe less and lucid. The night was calm. Torches flickered in a light maritime breeze, and the black, endless Indian sky glowed with the presence of the cosmos. Looking around gently, Bishop made a point not to catch the attention of the night guard, of which there were plenty of patrolling the camp at all hours. Seeing himself to be unnoticed, Bishop continued to a nearby veranda. He passed by a fire, recently extinguished, for bright ambers still radiated violently. Bishop looked at the fire with, for whatever reason, much sadness. Was it because of its short life, or the fact it was no longer useful? He walked up the cold steps of the veranda, and was at once meet with a jovial site. The sky kissed him gently. The stars, glorified in their illuminations, began their gentle poetry, which Bishop listened to with delight. He saw Mars, the Bringer of War; he saw Venus, the Bringer of Peace; he saw Mercury, the Winged Messenger; he saw Jupiter, the Bringer of Jollity; he saw Saturn, the Bringer of Old Age; he saw Uranus, the Magician; he saw Neptune, the Mystic. They danced through the sky in a valiant manner, and wore beneath them a thin red line of daybreak. Mars shined the brightest. Bishop examined the stars, and spoke to them as friends. They were his friends. He had met them long ago in England, and now they had followed him here to India. They look ever-more so radiant in the mystic skies of this brave new world. The smell of tea-fire smoke and light mist stirred the air. The stars, like the calligraphy of God, wrote their messages of love to the young corporal. Love... He had known the fragility of love. Knew it from long ago, but nonetheless knew it. If only he knew where Julia was, and what had become of her. Bishop now closed his eyes. Where was he? Why had he come to India? Could this be a chance to start over, or simply yet another gruelling chapter of his miserable twenty-seven years? In joining active service, he had sworn his love and loyalty to the British Empire. He did not love the empire. But he had to. If he denied his love, his life would be fruitless. The wind blowing coldly and gently playing with his stiff hair, Bishop found the words. He spoke them aloud: "Long live the British Empire... Long live the king...!" He paused for all but a minute. Nothing save the calm drone of the wind had responded to him. He was part of the empire now. He spoke again, louder: "Long live the British Empire! Long live the king!" After pausing again, he spoke it once more, loud enough for the heavens to hear but soft enough not to awake any soldiers: "Long live the British Empire! Long li --" "And long live the king..." A gruff, oddly calming voice had interrupted Bishop. Startled, he turned to face his watcher. The stars faded. Standing before Bishop was a hunched figure. It walked closer so Bishop could see his face. A cripple. An older man, he was crippled but not ancient; likely in his late fifties. He wore a brown ragged coat and slacks, and walked with an almond cane. His hair was brown but greying, and his face was calm. His eyes were blue and inviting. Bishop was drawn to them. Who was this man? At once he spoke again in the same raucous voice. "My apologies for the startle. I could not help but notice another body on my veranda." His voice was unchanged and monotone. Something in it, though, was relaxing to the corporal's ears and chilled him to the bone. Bishop remained silent out of surprise and indecision. "Well, not so much my veranda," continued the stranger, "I call it my own at these hours, though. I see you have taken advantage of its view. And a fine view it is." At that last sentence, the stranger paused and admired the Oriental sky. Like Bishop, he adored the stars and the sweet words they spoke. After a brief dozen seconds, he once again towards to a silent Bishop. "Well? Have you no words to say, lad?" Surprised at his own silence, Bishop, eyes-wide, continued to only stare at the stranger. He still could not find any words. Regardless, the stranger continued. "Very well, then. The name is Sergeant Simon Bates." Flustered and timid, Bishop immediately stood at attention and held a salute, realising he was in the presense of one with a superior ranking. Bates chuckled softly. "M'boy, when day is night, I am no longer a sergeant. But I wish to know the name of the lad who admires the night sky as I do." Finally, after a minute's struggle, Bishop spoke. "Bishop. Octavian Bishop, Corporal of the 110th British Infantry Army of India, Battalion Four, Company C." Bates smiled once more and held out his hand in approval. "Well then, Mr. Bishop, we are well met." he added, and with that, Octavian Bishop shook his hand. It is important, for the development of the story, to understand just what kind of man Bates is. Like Bishop, he was considered an outcast. Bates grew up in a small coal-mining town, likely in York, to a middle-class family. At a young age, he entered work, slaving away in the mines. He also, as he soon discovered, had a keen interest in reading.With what money he earned, he would buy books. With what money he had leftover, he would buy food for his family. As the years progressed, he had amassed a sizeable library in his very room. He had, as can be reflected in his personal dicta, a special liking towards the Roman classics, for he had most prominently stationed on his bookshelves the works of Ovid, Virgil, Seneca, Cicero, Suetonius, Cato, and the like. Everyday, whilst not breaking his back mining coal, he would read and gather all knowledge he possibly could, in hopes of attending university. However, these dreams shattered when his parents forced him to enlist in the British army, as means to acquire more money; he was only nineteen. He made the best of the enlistment, and soon found himself travelling the world; Ireland, British North America, the West Indies, and the breezy hills of the Cape Colonies were among his coveted locations. It was in the Cape Colonies he had gotten his limp, after a skirmish with Dutch marines. Now he had found himself in India, with the understanding that he was there not as a field soldier, but as a respected dignitary attempting to make peace with the local kingdoms. Whilst his position was indeed respectful, he was made the laughing stock among the other liaisons, simply because of his impaired nature. He was kind-hearted and intelligent, and at once Corporal Bishop saw Bates resembled, to a degree, his father. Well, his late father. The two men sat on the veranda, conversing, laughing, and ageing. Bates had silently stole back into his tent and emerged with two glasses of stout for the gentlemen to share. Bishop did not know much about books, and was not a very knowledgeable fellow in general; even still, he made easy conversation with the sergeant, whom recognised the dexterity and freedom of Bishop's mind. He was not a brainwashed person, Bates concluded, and perhaps he was right. The two sat on the frigid stone benches talking for hours. It was not before long that the first hue of tangerine darted like a wild swallow across the bittersweet night sky. Daybreak had come. Like a symphony of sweet horns, the first wild calls of the morning birds rung through the distilled air. Bates had told Bishop that these birds were the palm swifts, majestic little creatures that preferred to stay near the water. The stars, which had kept the two men company and had provided safety through the night had begun to fade, sorrowfully yet gently. Finally, as the major's blaring cornet pierced the ears of every man in the camp (and perhaps every man within a two miles' radius), Sergeant Bates rose from his seat and bid Corporal Bishop a fair day. Bishop reprised the wish, and he too rose to return to his company tent. Not a soul asked where he had been. The men of the camp were soon called to morning assembly at the dining hall, as was customary, at six o'clock. When all men had gathered and found the seats among their company, Lord Amherst made his way to the top of the banister. At his side, dressed in a painfully light blue frock coat, was Lieutenant Commander Terrington. Lord Amherst, or, as he sometimes preferred to be called his Christian name among his noble comrades, Sir Richard Barrow, was the de facto leader of the expedition into the Indian subcontinent, of which Bishop was part of. A close childhood friend of the King of England himself, the Earl Amherst had been hand-selected to serve the role as general of the expedition, of which the purpose was to establish healthy diplomatic standings with the local kingdoms of northern India; chief among them, the Kingdom of Talmar. He had brought with him a court of lowly politicians, willing ambassadors, lawyers, journalists, chirurgeons, and empirics to serve as his aides. He had also, as we can tell by Bishop's presence, brought along an infantry unit of His Majesty's Royal Army to accompany him on the expedition and, as the unit's leader, Terrington, put it, 'offer first-class protection of his lordship and ensure peace and order'. Having served in the army himself (but as a prestigious cavalry officer, due to his heritage), many of the soldiers of the regiment related well to Lord Amherst. He was not an unkind man. Though old in years, many saw him to be still full of life, pragmatic, and agreeable (as opposed to his appointed military captain, Lieutenant Commander Terrington, who had grown quite unpopular among his men for this very reason). Lord Amherst spoke fluently and loudly for all men in the room to hear. "We are a month's time into this expedition now," he began, proudly, "and I feel it is necessary for every one of fine gentlemen to understand what exactly it is we are doing here. Therefore, I shall be brief and get to the gist of the matter," As the earl paused, the men in the dining hall looked around at each other, curiously. He spoke again. "As several of you probably know, only a day's march south of our 'ery own camp here lies a village. A kingdom, in fact, called Talmar. A kingdom home to a great many of fine people who we English have called 'brothers' ever since our initial landing here two hundred years prior. The kingdom's righteous chieftain, Maharajah Gaikwar, and myself are the best of fellows, and wish to keep our prosperous alliance alive... However, due to the growing might that is the British Empire, orchestrated by His Majesty, King George II, God bless his name, our need for resources to manage the empire have also increased. Talmar, you see, is among northern Sikkim's wealthiest states, and during our golden age of great expansion, we have turned to the people of Talmar for pecuniary aid." As the earl paused once again, a timid blonde-haired soldier with a puzzled look about him sitting very near the banister shyly raised his hand. Lord Amherst allowed him to speak. "Please do excuse me, my lordship, but... you haven't really explained why ''we ''are here, you see." Lord Amherst smiled and with a nod, replied. "Of course! Thank you my good man. You gentlemen sitting here, among the King's finest, have been specially called upon and selected to headline this diplomatic mission and assure that all goes well. Every one of you sitting before me is an ambassador to the crown. You are led here, of course, by Lieutenant Terrington. I could not ask for a better regiment to work beside." At this, the earl motioned to Terrington, who stood gruffly to his right flank. At the mention of his name, the military captain pompously raised his hand and waved flamboyantly. "Now," Lord Amherst continued with a pleasant smile, "I have not a single doubt that the soldiers before me are men of honour. You all now know your duties. Yes, indeed, these duties are peace! Unity! We must uphold the healthy standings with our native friends we have so tirelessly worked to establish! As long as you all remember your morals taught to you, and obey the orders granted upon you, our goals will be achieved and our empire shall continue to bloom!" He finished the statement proudly, and at this, almost every soldier applauded voraciously. Corporal Bishop, sitting in the back, did not applaud. He felt uneasy. Chapter 3 That evening, Bishop once again returned to the stone veranda outside his company tent. And, much to his pleasure, Bates was there once again. "I suppose this'll become a nightly tradition of ours, then?" said Sergeat Bates with a chuckle. Just as they had the night before, Bishop and Bates conversed intently on a range of subjects. Through their conversations, Bishop had begun to learn a great deal about the sergeant. He had learned that his parents were both killed when he was twenty-two, but because of the debt they had left behind, he was forced to stay in the army. "That bloody debt still isn't paid off," he added, "and thus why I am here." "Surely you'll pay it off one day," suggested Bishop hopingly, "besides, this is India, the jewel of the British Empire!" Again Bates gave off a slight chuckle. "Lad, I've been to India plenty of times before in me military career. There be not any wealth here for the common soldier." "You've been to India before? What for, may I ask?" Bates looked down groomily, as if a wave of dark spirits had stirred him. And perhaps they had. "It was all but ten years ago," began Bates, solemnly, "they'd just moved me regiment here, so I had to come along, naturally. We were told we were serving privateer duty, and that we'd been given the Marque against the French bastards. And so we did fight them, sure enough. Nearly got them at Pondicherry, we did. But that wasn't all we did..." Bates stopped with a look of regret about him. Bishop urged him to continue. "My commander at the time - a young lad from Derby, if I remember right - had a peculiar hatred against the natives. 'Nothing but bloody fakirs' he'd say when they were mentioned. One day, while our company was in patrol of the area, we came across one of thar villages... Sure enough, our ol' leader ordered it to be burned to the ground..." His face turned white and his eyes black. "I can still see their faces... Men, women, and children alike. We shot the men. We raped the women. The children... oh Lord..." A tear rolled down Bates's cheek. Having come to his senses, he quickly wiped the tear and stood up. "That'll be enough for tonight then..." He began walking towards the veranda steps back to his tent, when Bishop rose as well. "Wait." interjected Bishop. Bates turned. "You don't suppose... We'll be killing any natives... Do you Sergeat Bates?" Bates simply smiled innocently. "I can't imagine it. During a peace mission? Not likely. Now you best get some sleep, lad. We have musket practice first thing in the morning." And so they did. Bishop had slept soundly that night, perhaps for the first time in the weeks he had been at the camp. He awoke well-rested and, with musket in hand and his bright red uniform recently pressed, caught up with the rest of his battalion at the shooting ranges. To call them 'shooting ranges' was a bit generous. Due to a lack of proper training supplies, the 110th British Infantry had resorted to squandering all hay bales that had not been consumed by their livestock for the use of target practice. Bales of various sizes had been lined up in a small open field just outside the encampment, and during training sessions, the officers would place small objects on top of each bale for the regulars to pick off. Small fruits, stones, broken shards, or playing cards were most often used. Occasionally, an officer would place on top of a bale a small wooden effigy, perhaps of a Hindu deity, likely given as a gift by the natives. Upon a musket ball's contact, these items combusted the best. As Bishop stood ready in line, the butt of his musket dug into the ground, he could not help but shiver ever so slightly at the cold morning air. The breeze blew softly, and as he looked at the soldiers around him, Corporal Bishop noticed they, too, had taken an uncomfort to the unexpected frigid climate. The ground was wet with dew. A few metres in front of Bishop stood a bale. He had shot a gun only a few times before in his life; during his previous years in active duty, he was reluctant to fire his gun on the battlefield, as he found the idea of ending another man's life to be dreadful. When he did fire a gun, it was an intentional miss. Finally, the sergeant major appeared before the men in line. He held in his hand, unsheathed, an iron sabre with a gold hilt and light felt. His face was dirty, and his eyes unkind. Bishop knew at once that the rough, dark brown beard that covered his jaw was to hide the scars on his face. He stared at the men before him suspiciously, snorted unhappily, and began to speak in a loud, raucous, fashion, with short pauses between sentences. "Good morning, men. I am Sergeant Philip Lombard, but you will refer to me as 'sir', 'sergeant', or 'His Holiness'." Two young soldiers at the end of the row chuckled softly at this. Lombard heard them immediately and approached them like a viper. "Something funny, gentlemen?" One of the soldiers timidly responded: "No, Your Holiness." "Thought so," concluded Lombard with a sly grin. He walked back to the centre, to address the row of men as a whole. "Now then," he continued roughly, Category:Fan Stories Category:McKagan Productions Pieces